


The Sculptor of the Stone Village

by TaffyWitch30



Category: The Lost Cat Podcast
Genre: Gen, dubious honor of being the first fic of this fandom, no beta we die like literally everyone in the city seriously how is anyone still alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:15:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28908429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaffyWitch30/pseuds/TaffyWitch30
Summary: The housemates meet a most interesting woman after a night of partying.
Relationships: Morpin/Bojana





	The Sculptor of the Stone Village

In the city, there are many curiosities, but none quite so curious as the collection of more-or-less-statues which huddle atop an ordinary ridge in an ordinary neighborhood. Most curiosities have explanations—a curiosity shop exists because its proprietors would like to take the skulls and cats of those who wander in, for instance. Or, a shadow monster will sing to the moon because it is sad inside—a well-documented phenomenon amongst those who are perpetually sad inside. This makes sense. But why, in a place which is neither a park nor a cemetery nor anywhere special at all, should there be a village full of stone not-people and once-people and never-people?  
These thoughts, interesting as they may be, did not cross the minds of the returning partygoers as they stumbled home through the statues. It was a peaceful night, all things considered—the dark cloud swirled contentedly, the leviathan hummed its song, and all was at rest for at least a minute. A very colorful Indian woman, who answered to the name of Bojana, did a little dance and nearly fell into the arms of a particularly sad looking stone figure. Her girlfriend, an extraordinarily pale goth named Morpin, reached out to help her up, when suddenly she did a double take.  
“Look, babe! Isn’t that Kathy from the coffee shop? How could she be a statue?” Bojana and the rest of the group—the two other housemates and a friend who was to crash on their couch that night—did indeed recognize the familiar face. Suddenly the friend, David, spoke up.  
“Oh, Kathy! Yeah, she went on a super health and wellness kick a few weeks back. Decided to be an Ignizoii, deleted all her socials. Poor bastard got too cold I guess, and now she’s here.” The very thoroughly drunk crew, too hammered to respond, stood around in agreement.  
“I wonder if all of the statues are Ignizoii” said Morpin, both the least drunk and most curious.  
“I don’t reckon so,” answered Dom, who was sensible like that. “Else, see, else we’d hear about it. Or we’d see it, see, they’d be stone cold all over the streets.”  
“But the statues are brought here! They, they’ve got to freeze up and then someone puts them up here, that’s why!” returned she. No one had an answer for that, so they, in a daze, contemplated for a moment. Then, they kept walking, and walked further through the statues until they came across a lady.  
Or, rather, she came across them, as they weren’t in much of a state to be seeking anything. She was tall, muscular, with grey hair coiled into a bun and a pretty gardenia-print sundress. In her large bag, which gave the impression of being immensely deep despite looking perfectly ordinary, sculptor’s tools were visible.  
“I heard you were wondering about me?” she stated, chipper as ever despite it being the wee hours of the morning.  
“Who, who’re you?” slurred Dom.  
“I’m the sculptor. I made these people. Well, most of them anyway. Sometimes statues just show up here, or sometimes it’s mostly-dead Ignizoii. But the rest I make.”  
“Huh. Why show up now of all times, then? Or do you appear when someone calls your name like the good gentlemen of the hills?” interjected Bojana from the arms of the statue, where she still sprawled like a romantic heroine.  
“Oh I was just admiring my work, and I wanted to show off. It is just so fun getting credit, but I can hardly go putting my name over everything. Really, I don’t think I’m legally allowed to keep putting these here, it's only that no one's stopped me yet.”  
“But how’d you make it all? Hasn’t, hasn’t the stone village been around for decades?”  
“Do I look young?”  
“Ah. Fair enough,” said the fourth housemate, whose name has long been forgotten. “But, why make so many statues? And why leave them here, of all places?”  
“Well that is quite a story. See, when I was a girl, I was gifted a set of carving tools by some very rich, very dead old uncle or other. I was never very interested in learning to use them but kept them around as a curiosity. At least, until my friend died, and a large block of marble appeared at my door. With nothing else to drown my grief, I attempted to pick up those tools, and took to it with surprising ease. When I finished, I had a passing stature of my late friend, laughing. I didn’t know where else to put it, so I left it here and no one from the city took it away.  
Since then, I would occasionally receive large blocks of stone. Usually it would be after the death of someone I know, but I sometimes had to go searching through the obituary pages to find someone who felt right for a statue. Most of the ones here, I made, but more and more have just appeared. Some are Ignizoii, burnt out at last. Others, I imagine, are left by other sculptors, though I can’t imagine who. It’s really not a cheap hobby, and if I didn’t have a mysterious benefactor I really wouldn’t be able to keep it up.  
“How poetic.”  
“Hardly. When I’m long gone they’ll crumble to dust just the same. Anyway, would you all like some wine? I have half a bottle left, and even some cups I think,” she said, withdrawing them from the endless depths of her purse. And between the stone statues, they drank a large glass of wine.


End file.
